


King of a (Ruined) World

by Autodidact



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abuse, Acephobia, Asexual Jonathan Sims, Author is trans, BDSM, Content Warnings By Chapter, Dom Elias Bouchard, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Master/Slave, Relationship Abuse, Sub Jonathan Sims, Trans Elias Bouchard, Trans Jonathan Sims, Trans Male Character, Transitioning, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact
Summary: Elias Bouchard shapes his submissive, Jonathan Sims, into his ideal form.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38
Collections: Jonelias Week 2020





	King of a (Ruined) World

**Author's Note:**

> This work features trans characters as both victims and perpetrators of transphobia. More specifically, it deals with the erasure of non-binary and asexual identities. I'm not going to lie to you: it's not pretty.
> 
> If this doesn't sound like the type of thing you're interested in or capable of reading at the moment, I highly encourage you to click away. It's all good. Your mental health is important.
> 
> I’ll update these author’s notes with what kind of language I’m going to be using for transmasculine anatomy once things actually start getting explicit.
> 
> Click to view content warnings.

#### 2011.

* * *

In the hallway's full-length mirror, I watch myself try to make something of my hair. It's dark, and it's thick, and it resists the hairbrush I drag through it. A long stray hair clings to the off-white of my binder, and I pull it away. Let it fall to the floor. We have to vacuum often anyway, given the cat.

"Do you have everything you need?" Georgie asks me from the bedroom. Her voice is nasal, wet. This is the second day of her fight against whatever illness she's come down with.

"I think so," I respond. "Wallet, bus schedule, address, interview questions, recorder—"

"Do you know how to use it?"

" _Yes,_ I know how to use it." I wince as the hairbrush snags on a tangle. I should be gentler with it, but I'm in a hurry. Once I've got that tamed, I pull my hair back into a ponytail, because I don't like the way it gets in my face when I'm reading.

"Water?" Georgie asks as I'm going through the closet, looking for something appropriately professional to wear.

I stop, look over at the bedside table. She still has half a glass. "For you or for me?"

"For _you,_ Jon. You need to keep hydrated too. Especially if you're going to be on the bus for two hours."

I'm looking at the buttons of my shirt as I do them up and adjust the fabric so it doesn't cling to my chest so much, but I can hear the smile in her voice. "I'll bring water, don't worry."

"Good. Can't have you sounding parched on my podcast," she says. This is the first I'm hearing about this.

I turn towards her as I'm putting on my trousers. She looks comfortable in bed, all wrapped up in blankets, while I've been sleeping on the couch to not catch whatever she has. "I thought this was for that blog you write for."

"The _transcription_ is, but I'm putting the recording on my podcast. Going to start it off with something interesting."

"Do you have a name for it yet?"

"You'll laugh."

"I _won't."_

"You will!" 

"...I might. I have to go, Georgie, so if you're going to tell me, tell me."

_"'What the Ghost.'"_

I laugh.

"See! I told you!" She pulls up the white covers to hide her face, looking very much like a sheet ghost. I tug at the foot of the bed to pull them back down, wanting to see her but not wanting to get too close.

"It's cute. It's a cute name," I reassure her.

Georgie is pouting. It's very cute.

"I'll be back before dinner. I'll pick something up. Okay?"

"...Okay."

"Curry, maybe. To clear everything out." I make a gesture to my face more generally, but I mean my sinuses specifically.

"Mm. Hopefully I can actually taste it." She shoos me towards the door. "Now shove off, you've got a bus to catch. And don't forget your water."  
  


* * *

  
It's two hours from Oxford into London—not a trip I'm used to taking very much at all. Fortunately, I remembered to pack one of my textbooks and a folder crammed full of notes, so I'm able to study during the journey. The last of my semester's classes was yesterday and exams are fast approaching. I'll be glad to see them over with.

I just hope that I don't catch whatever Georgie has. Trying to study while sick is a disaster waiting to happen.

I left plenty of time to make it to London before the interview at two o'clock, and the transit was barely delayed, so I take the chance to stop into a café a block from the place I'm supposed to be.

_The Magnus Institute._ Established 1818.

Georgie's been looking for an excuse to take a peek at their library for years, but it's so far out of the way that even if she could convince one of her professors to write a letter of recommendation, it'd hardly be worth it to go. "It's the kind of place that's 'reference books only,'" she'd said, and "if I had a place in London I could stay, it'd be different. The way people write about it, I could get lost for a week in there."

I have to admit, I'm also a little bit curious. Paranormal research isn't my thing, not really, but a place that old has got to contain some _fascinating_ things.

Fifteen minutes early, I enter the building. It's old in the way a lot of London architecture is, but well-built and clearly well-cared for. Inside, it feels very much like a lot of buildings on campus do, with the sounds of distant desk-work and quiet conversation. It's all wooden floors and wainscoting and rugs inside. I adjust my blazer, make sure it's sitting okay on my frame given the strap of the messenger bag, and I make my way right up to the reception desk.

"Good afternoon," I say, to get the receptionist's attention. She is rosy-cheeked and the smile lines on her face are deep. "I'm here to see Mr. Elias Bouchard. For the interview."

She clicks around on her computer. "Two o'clock?" She asks. I nod. "You sounded a tad different on the phone."

I wince. I can't help it. I'll be thankful to never have to hear somebody say that again. But at least there is a concrete reason for it here. "Ah, I'm not Georgie—Ms. Barker. She couldn't make it out to the appointment, so she sent me. I'm Jonathan Sims."

The receptionist types that in after confirming the spelling. "Okay then, Mr. Sims. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait? Tea, coffee?"

I breathe a mental sigh of relief when I hear her say that, and another when she doesn't ask to see any type of ID. I hold up my to-go cup of tea where she can see it. "I think I'm covered, but thank you."

She smiles. "All right. Head on up, then—" and she gestures towards a staircase, "third floor, end of the hallway on your left. Can't miss it." 

I nod, and I smile back, and I think it looks natural but it probably doesn't. "Thank you."

The stairs creak as I start to ascend—again, like a lot of buildings on campus. I don't encounter anybody on the stairs, but I can't shake the hint of uneasiness, like I'm being watched. I keep an eye out for security cameras. There aren't any.

I pause to lean on the railing and clean my glasses on the hem of my dress shirt, which I make sure to carefully tuck back into my trousers. Another look at the ceiling with clearer eyes, and still no security cameras. I mentally shrug and continue climbing.

At the end of the hallway on the third floor, there is a leather armchair—presumably for people to sit in as they're waiting to be seen. Above it hangs a portrait of a gentleman, round-faced and auburn-haired, wearing fashion consistent with the early nineteenth century. Given the outfit, the bookshelves, and the writing desk in the background, it wouldn't surprise me if this is the institute's founder.

Some of the doors have nameplates on them, I've noticed, and the last one on the left reads both "Elias Bouchard" and "Head of the Institute". The door is slightly ajar.

I check my watch. I'm still a few minutes early, but I knock anyway. If Mr. Bouchard is busy, I don't mind sitting and waiting.

"Come in," I hear in response, so I do.

The first thing I notice about the room is the rug, elaborate and faded from age, but kept quite clean. The second is the desk, heavy and wooden, just like the bookshelves and the curio cabinets. The third is the man—no, _gentleman_ —sitting behind it, with his gold-rimmed glasses and his striking, steely eyes.

He is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous person I've seen in my life.

If it weren't for the grey hair, slicked back away from his forehead, I'd think he was in his forties. He's got one of those faces that shows he actually cares about his looks, and it wouldn't surprise me if he's wearing concealer or something like it—I've never had any idea what I was doing with makeup, not even when I was younger, so I wouldn't know. His suit is a deep olive green and it fits him beautifully. I feel awkward in my charity shop blazer.

"Mr. Sims, I presume?" He's standing and holding his hand out for me to shake it. Dear _Lord._

Somehow, I make it over there without tripping over my own feet. I nod and shake his hand. He has very soft hands. "Yes. For the interview," I quickly say. "Ms. Barker couldn't make it."

"Elias Bouchard. I'm sorry to hear that," he says, and lets go, gesturing over to a couch that I hadn't noticed yet. "Shall we sit? It's more comfortable than the office chair, I promise."

The couch—that's probably not the word for this type of furniture, but I'm not sure what is (loveseat? settee?)—is an elaborately carved and lavishly upholstered thing. Victorian, probably. It's definitely an antique and not a reproduction, as its ageing shows. I sit, set my tea down on one of the side tables' coasters, and Mr. Bouchard does the same on his side. He has a mug for his, though I can't help but feel that this is the sort of man who would use a proper teacup and saucer at home.

I put the messenger bag down and start getting out the things I'll need. The list of interview questions goes on my lap, and the digital recorder nearly goes onto the floor in my haste to get it out. I hear a good-natured scoff and go red in the face.

Mr. Bouchard gets up out of his seat and goes over to search through his desk. "You're welcome to record this, by all means, but this building occasionally causes interference to show up on digital recordings—I couldn't tell you why," he says, and gets out an old-fashioned _tape recorder_ of all things. Finds a cassette and pops it in. "So we'll run this too, just in case."

I blink. Interference? What does _that_ mean? "What, because of all the ghosts?" I joke, sounding more sarcastic than I'd intended.

"Yes," Mr. Bouchard says with an indulgent little smile. "Because of all the ghosts."

I've figured out how to get the recorder running, and once it is, I look back to Mr. Bouchard when he sits down with me again. Over his shoulder, I see a human skull sitting on a box in one of the cabinets. I don't think it's a reproduction. _Well,_ then.

I'm about to start with the interview, but I wait when I see Mr. Bouchard silencing me with a finger until the tape recorder is up and running. He gives me a small nod, and I take that as permission to begin. I clear my throat and ask, "So, Mr. Bouchard, how long have you been the Director of the Magnus Institute?"

He relaxes into his seat and stares up at the ceiling in that way that people often do when recalling something distant. "I took over from Mr. Wright in, oh... 1996? So fifteen years now, I suppose. I've been working here since I graduated."

I'll believe it. I have no idea how old this man is, but that sounds plausible. "What did you study?"

"PPE, at Oxford."

"Oh! I'm nearly finished with my History degree there. If all goes well." I feel good about my upcoming exams. It'll be nice to have the break, in all honesty.

"Best of luck," Mr. Bouchard says. He picks up his tea and takes a sip.

I refer to the list of questions, looking for another basic one. "In your own words, what does the Magnus Institute do?" I have a bit of an idea, but Georgie has much more of one.

Mr. Bouchard speaks like he's giving a sales pitch. He's probably had to do it many times, given how long he's supposedly been running the place. "The Magnus Institute is a repository for knowledge regarding the supernatural and the esoteric. We maintain a library for academic use, a collection of unusual artefacts, and records of personal accounts with the supernatural. Mostly written statements, but some of them are correspondences. Some of them are interviews."

"Yes, Georgie's read some of them," I interject. "From that leak back in '99."

Elias scowls. "I do hope that isn't on your list of questions."

"I, ah—" I hurriedly look down at the page. Fortunately, there don't seem to be. "No, there aren't. Erm. Continuing: how much of a personal interest do you take in the Magnus Institute's activities?"

"Would you mind clarifying, Mr. Sims?"

I look at the other questions close by for a hint about what Georgie means, but I don't find one. "The research, I assume."

"Ah. Well, I don't have much of a chance these days to review _everything_ interesting that passes through our doors, but I try to pay attention to the occasional story that catches my eye."

"Are there any in particular that jump out at you? Any recent ones?"

Mr. Bouchard smiles, just a little, and there's something knowing in it. "We had a gentleman in last year claiming to be a vampire hunter."

"Honestly?" I can feel the glasses shifting on my nose as I raise my eyebrow.

"Honestly. Research is still being done into the alleged murders, but what we've found so far is promising."

I look straight at Mr. Bouchard, shocked at how seriously and coolly he seems to be discussing this. "Murders, _plural?_ How many?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, I'm afraid. And it does depend on whether you count vampires as 'people' or not."

"I'm pretty sure they're still people? They're dead people by definition, aren't they?"

Mr. Bouchard shrugs. Sips his tea again. It doesn't look like he's going to answer, so I continue.

"What's the strangest thing you've witnessed, personally? If you don't mind sharing."

"That depends on your definition of 'strange', doesn't it?"

"Odd. Supernatural. Uncanny."

"Hmm. The Archival staff would be better to ask about that—I just do desk work." Fair enough, I think. Mr. Bouchard continues. "But, back when I was working in Artefact Storage, I was chatting with a coworker who was scanning some pages from a copy of the _Key of Solomon._ She came over to hand me the pages to file away and she collapsed, and there was this _crack_ like breaking bones—she didn't hit anything on the way down, she just crumpled. I called an ambulance right away, of course. There was this stain on the ground where she fell—oily, almost? _Very_ difficult to get out of the carpet. She apparently died in hospital a couple of weeks later. Some autoimmune something or other."

There _could_ definitely be a rational explanation for that. The casual way that Mr. Bouchard is speaking about something that gruesome kind of puts me on edge, though. "And your coworker, she was... healthy? And then this happened?"

"Yes, very healthy, as far as I could tell. There have been a number of odd occurrences around here. That's just one that stands out in particular." I'm mystified that he still seems able to drink tea without his stomach turning. I definitely can't, so it sits abandoned on the table for now.

I'm not quite sure of what to do, so I go back to the list of questions. "Are you married?"

I hadn't noticed before quite how piercing Mr. Bouchard's gaze can be. My discomfort turns into anxiety, and I immediately regret asking, even if it's Georgie's question, not mine.

"That's a personal matter," Mr. Bouchard says. He does not look pleased.

I can't help but be curious. I don't believe I saw a wedding ring on his hand, and from that and the way he responded, I think he's likely divorced. Messily, probably.

"Sorry. It's on the list."

"Mm. Continue."

I clear my throat, take a drink of water, and do exactly that. "You've been seen in the press several times with a Ms. Robinson. What is your relationship with her?" I have no idea who this is. I barely know about anyone here, aside from Mr. Bouchard.

"Ms. Robinson is a work colleague. She's the Head Archivist here." Mr. Bouchard doesn't seem to be making direct eye contact with me anymore, which I'm grateful for. "And between you and me, she 'isn't married' either."

Guess that answers the earlier question, although that particular phrasing is odd. "Is that in a 'she never married' sort of way?"

Mr. Bouchard shrugs, smiles. It seems playful, almost. "It's not my place to say."

"Are you?"

His smile turns to a grin—right, definitely playful—and he leans over to pick up his teacup, crossing his legs when he settles back down. His earring swings with the movement, though I can't quite tell what the shape of it is supposed to be. I'm pretty sure he only has the one. Which ear is supposed to be the gay ear?

My stomach churns with the realization that Mr. Bouchard felt comfortable enough to confide that in me, even without explicitly saying it. I'm not straight, obviously. But I'm used to a fair number of people assuming that I'm a lesbian, which is _frustrating_ even if they're well-meaning. I remember back to Mr. Bouchard calling me 'Mr. Sims' like that was the natural thing to call somebody who looks like me, and that makes me feel a bit better.

"Are you quite all right, Jonathan?"

Oh dear. Now he's calling me by my _first_ name. I wonder how he knows it until I realize that the receptionist must have told him before I came up. "Yes, I'm fine," I stammer.

Mr. Bouchard doesn't look like he believes me, which is fair. "Shall I get us something to drink?"

" _God,_ yes," I say before I can think about it.

Mr. Bouchard goes over to an honest-to-God drinks cabinet, the kind with a panel that folds down to become a surface for bottles and glasses to rest on. He doesn't ask me what I'd like, but I don't mind, and he pours us both something from a decanter—which is a first for me, since I don't drink much or go to parties formal enough to have that sort of thing. I don't go to very many parties at all, really. They're loud, and I'm never sure of what to do when talking with strangers. At least I have a list of questions here—and a glass in my hand when Mr. Bouchard passes it to me.

I've never been much of a whiskey person, but this is smooth and smoky and I feel much more at ease after a couple of sips, so I get back into doing the interview.

The rest of it isn't very interesting to me—questions about community involvement and asking for comments on statements that some people with names I do not know have made. Mr. Bouchard seems content enough to answer them, though I can't shake the feeling that I'm being _examined_ in the pauses where he isn't speaking. The drink was probably a good idea. I feel a bit like _I'm_ the one being interviewed.

When I come to the end of the questions, I thank Mr. Bouchard for his time. I reach out to turn the digital recorder off at the same time Mr. Bouchard does so for the tape recorder, which he then takes back over to his desk to pop the cassette out, label it (I'm not sure why—it's not like Georgie or I have a bunch of tapes sitting around at home), and find a case for it. I finish off the last of my whiskey and start packing up my things.

"Where are you off to after this?" Mr. Bouchard asks. "I do hope you're not driving."

"In _London?_ No, absolutely not." The thought makes me shudder. "I'm taking the bus back to Oxford."

"Ah. Well, I hope you have a safe trip." Mr. Bouchard slides the cassette across his desk where I can pick it up. "Once your exams are finished, you should come in for an interview. Our Research team is always looking for promising graduates with your sort of educational background."

I pick up the tape, and I stop, staring blankly at Mr. Bouchard. "You don't even know what my grades are like."

Mr. Bouchard shrugs. "Interest in the topic matters more to me than grades. I look for potential, and curiosity, and I get the sense that you have both."

"I don't believe in—ghosts, the supernatural, whatever you want to call it."

"Oh, we both know that's not _entirely_ true." In the brief moment it appears, Mr. Bouchard's smile is playful in a way that is entirely different than how it was before. It's a taunt, clearly, but I'm not sure why or _how_ it is. He continues, saying, "Besides, a healthy amount of skepticism is an admirable quality in a researcher."

I set my bag and my blazer right and look around to make sure I'm not missing anything. The self-consciousness is starting to come back, and I don't want to be around this man when it does, in case I make a fool of myself more than I already have today. "I'll think about it," I say, and I turn to go.

"Good. If you would like to speak further, my door is always open."

I nod, thank him again, and take that as a sign to leave. My shoes tap on the old hardwood as I pause by the door, wondering whether or not to close it. I decide against it and step out into the hallway, glancing back over my shoulder when I hear Mr. Bouchard speak once more.

"But please make sure to knock. It's only polite," he says.

It's a coincidence. It _has_ to be a coincidence.

Hands shaking, I make my way downstairs and out of the Magnus Institute with haste. I manage to walk all the way to a park bench before I have to sit and breathe deeply to stave off an oncoming panic attack. That phrasing was a coincidence. Surely. It's not an unusual thing to say.

I get to my feet with a start and check the park bench thoroughly for cobwebs. There aren't any. I sit back down and hold my head in my hands, pushing my glasses up to my forehead.

This is fine, I tell myself.

Everything is going to be fine.  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The specific thing that happened to Elias’ coworker was she was carrying a photocopy of the Fourth Pentacle of Saturn in the _Key of Solomon,_ upon which is inscribed the following from Psalm cix. 18: "As he clothed himself with cursing like as with a garment, so let it come into his bowels like water, and like oil into his bones."
> 
> This happened. Very literally. Don't swear in the Institute.  
>   
> If you'd like to know what the inspiration behind this work is, you can decode the following message. If you'd rather keep reading and see if you can guess, all the power to you.
> 
> ([ROT13 decoder](https://rot13.com))  
> lrf, guvf jbex vf vafcverq ol svsgl funqrf bs terl. lrf, V nz jubyyl njner bs ubj greevoyr bs n obbx vg vf.  
>   
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.  
>   
>   
>  **Content warnings:**  
>  Mentions of body horror, death, misgendering, and panic attacks. [return to top]


End file.
